


My Life, My Light (Is Coming Home)

by Veni_vidi_vici



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Are there other ways people get together?, Backwards Relationship, Bounty Hunters, Bunch of idiots running from real life, But just the sex, Cybernetics, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Fuck buddies to relationship, Getting Together, It's porn, Mando sometimes thinks with his dick, Mercenaries, Not Beta Read, Partners in Crime, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Quick Burn, Reader Really Likes Violence, Reader and Mando Go on An Adventure, Reader is a BAMF, She/her pronouns, They're bad at the feelings, a lot of swearing, fuck buddies, i wouldn’t know, like a lot of porn, opposite of slow burn, reader is snarky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28902405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veni_vidi_vici/pseuds/Veni_vidi_vici
Summary: "He wasn’t trying to get laid, per se, but when you’d sidled up to him and whispered, “so, is your dick also made of beskar,” you’d planted the idea in his brain.His brain, or really, his brain while his dick was in the driver’s seat, was a fucking traitor, and while he recognized it was just about the worst (not an exaggeration) pick-up line he’d ever heard, he couldn’t help but tilt the visor and give you a once over."(Mando’s fate gets tangled with a mercenary’s, and after a backwards courtship, he tries to figure out how to ask her to be his partner (maybe forever?) as they go on a fetch-quest for Luke Skywalker to find former Jedi-apprentice, Cal Kestis and an item he’s rumored to have in his possession.)
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	1. The Beginning Before The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a purely self-indulgent story featuring unnecessary cybernetics, a healthy dose of porn with and without feelings, and an erratic writing style that cannot be tamed (sorry to all of my professors who have tried). Title is from a Fleetwood Mac song, “Coming Home.” Story takes place after 02x08. Will update as often as possible!

Somewhere in the thick brush of a seemingly-endless jungle on the outer-rim planet, Eriadu, months into running an errand for Luke Skywalker, Mando realized the two of you did the whole relationship thing backwards. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. You met at a cantina, and lots of relationships start at cantinas. But everything that happened after that was, undeniably, backwards.

** _\- The Beginning Before The Beginning_ **

** _(The Aforementioned Cantina) -_ **

He wasn’t _trying_ to get laid, per se, but when you’d sidled up to him and whispered, “so, is your dick also made of beskar,” you’d planted the idea in his brain.

His brain, or really, his brain while his dick was in the driver’s seat, was a fucking traitor, and while he recognized it was just about the _worst_ (not an exaggeration) pick-up line he’d _ever_ heard, he couldn’t help but tilt the visor and give you a once over.

He drank in the sight of you, dressed head to toe in skin tight leather, hair styled to an undercut on the left side, revealing a tattoo of a florescent, cat-like creature. He also noted the pair of blasters strapped to matching thigh holsters, because, well, he hadn’t completely thrown all logic out the door (yet).

The logical part of his brain that was still working practically screamed at him that you might be there to kill him. But at this point, his non-beskar dick had taken over the show,and with it, all of his “thinking” functions. Alas, before he could say “no,” or “yes,” or just walk the fuck away, he’d replied: “Do you want to find out?”

The ear-to-ear grin that stretched across your face was…mesmerizing, and in that moment, it was abundantly clear that his body had betrayed his mind for good. You told him your name, threw a few credits on the bar top, and nodded towards the backdoor. Swinging your hips the whole way there, you paused with a hand on the door and faced him.

“Are you coming?”

The sound of your voice floating over the cantina band snapped him out of his reverie. He hadn’t realized he was still standing in the same place, still waiting for his feet to carry him towards the door where you were patiently waiting. Here was his last chance to come to his senses and bail. He stood there, pretending to think about it when you looked over your shoulder and had the damn audacity to _wink_ at him. And because he was an absolute oaf, _that_ was what got his feet moving.

You led, he followed, eyes trained to your ass as you guided him through an alleyway and onto a side street because fucking in the dark on a side street was infinitely more classy than pressed against a dumpster in an alleyway. Obviously.

The Mandalorian stopped in the darkest part of the narrow street and leaned up against a stone wall. He beckoned you over with a gloved hand. Sauntering over excruciatingly slowly, you removed your jacket, letting it fall to a heap on the ground.

That’s when he’d noticed them — a set of state-of-the-art, fancy-as-fuck, not-from-this-planet, cybernetics where your forearms would be. Neon tubes of _something_ ran from the crook of your arm down to your wrist, where they disappeared underneath metal plating. The steel faded into skin, or at least synthetic skin.

He knew it was rude to stare and he _had_ met humans with cybernetics before — Fennec Shand was the first time come to mind — and he kind of hoped you weren’t much like her. But it was one thing to know someone with cybernetics and an entirely different thing to fuck someone who might be part-droid, part-human.

Through all…‘this’ (some might call it an internalized panic attack) you stood there. Then, you rolled your eyes. “I’m not a droid, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

For a moment, he appeared taken aback. Maybe you had magic force powers and had read his thoughts. Maybe he should’ve asked if you were a Jedi.

“What are you then?” He asked, instead.

“Does it matter?” He meant to say something, he really did — something like, _yes it does matter because droids killed my parents and slaughtered my whole village_ or _the other cybernetically-enhanced human I know once tried to sell my life to a rookie bounty hunter_ — but then you were in front of him, dropping to your knees and mouthing at his groin. He tried and failed to suppress a moan.

“I guess it doesn’t really matter after all,” you smirked.

You reached up with one of your hands, cupping his balls through his underwear as the other hand undid the zipper of his pants, leaving just the thin fabric of his boxers separating his dick from your lips.

Your eyes traveled up his body and met the “T” of his visor. While holding eye contact, you moved your mouth to his thigh and bit him through his pants. Hard. He winced as your sharp teeth dug into the rarely-touched flesh before smoothing your tongue over the brand-new bite marks. His breath caught in his throat, and he moaned at the sensation.

Pulling his semi-hard cock out of his pants with urgency, you slipped his length past your plush lips until the whole thing rested heavy in your mouth. He hissed as you ran your tongue around it, feeling him grow harder until you found it difficult to keep his whole dick in your mouth without gagging.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

“Can’t wait for you put this thick cock inside me.” You muttered, lips brushing against his tip. Your fingers found their way underneath the armor protecting his muscular thighs, and you used them to press him back into the wall. Settling into a steady rhythm, you peered up at him as you bobbed your head up and down on big cock. Head tipped up and back, you could make out his Adam’s apple and maybe some stubble, but that was it. The darkness refused to reveal anything else.

You paused for a moment, holding his throbbing cock inside your mouth and relished in the way his length twitch against your tongue when you hummed against him. Tucking his dick into the side of your mouth, you announced,

“Naw may eskar.” The tip of his cock bumped into the soft side of your cheek,successfully pulling another moan out of the Mandalorian. The distorted sound passed through the vocoder, loud enough to echo and disturb the silence.

“Wha—at?”

You pulled off his cock with an obscene pop, a string of saliva trailing from the swollen head to your lips. “Not. Made. Of. Beskar.” You repeated.

“Oh.” He couldn’t come up with anything else to say because your mouth was instantly back on his achingly hard length. One hand was now wrapped around the base, squeezing and stroking in time with your mouth without bothering to come up for air.

You could feel the heat between your legs and willed away the desire to abandon the blow job and ask him to just fuck you against the wall. But you swore you had discipline. For now, you focused all your energy on his cock, bringing your lips all the way to his sensitive tip before taking it back in your mouth inch by inch, until your nose was pressed up against his soft curls.

You pulled your mouth off his cock for a moment, panting against the sliver of exposed skin on his thigh. “Glad it’s not made of beskar,” you murmured before licking a stripe on the underside of his cock and running your tongue from the base to the tip with expertise.

Stopping when you reached the tip again, you raised your gaze to the visor and said, “‘Cause I like when you choke me with your cock. And beskar would hur—”

Before you could finish the word “hurt,” you words sent him into an absolute fucking frenzy, causing him to bring his hand to the back of your head and thrust into your mouth with reckless abandon. He slammed his cock into the back of your throat. Tears squeezed out of your eyes, and you did the best you could to make enough sweet sounds so the Mandalorian would know that he could keep fucking your mouth like there was no tomorrow.

“Fuck. Gonna c-cum,” he stammered. “Gonna m-make you c-cum after. Then g-gonna f-fuck you and make you cum on my cock.” The words tumbled from his mouth faster than he could rein them back in. He pulled your hair harder, tilting your face up to the dark, night sky until he could see the shape of his cock sliding down your throat.

He stored the image away, making a note to revisit it later when the nights got lonely. He managed to memorize the way you hollowed out your cheeks, your eyes watching him hungrily through your lashes before his vision grew blurry. A heartbeat later, the pleasure became unbearable and he came down your throat, biting back a throaty moan and letting the helmet fall back to the wall.

It was overwhelming and _good_ , and he was already imagining hauling you to your feet and fucking you with his fingers until you were crumbling against the wall, when suddenly — “FUCK!”

Your mouth was off of his dick instantly because that was _not_ a ‘fuck’ that had been uttered out of pleasure. You heard a blaster shot (the second one, apparently you’d missed the first which had grazed the outside of the Mandalorian’s thigh mid-orgasm), and immediately, you were on your feet, swiveling around to face the dark abyss.

Your companion was struggling to tuck his cock back on his pants, fumbling with the zipper while simultaneously reaching for the blaster in his boot. The edge of his visionwas still fuzzy, and he was reeling from the shock of being shot while in the middle of fucking cumming.

“Get behind me.” The Mandalorian ordered, when he’d finally gotten his shit together. Not too far off in the distance, an alien figure lurked in the shadows, blaster drawn.

“What? No.” You scoffed. He fired at the shooter, but took a second to glance down at you. What did you mean ‘ _no._ ’ He went to shove you behind him, but you were having none of it. Sidestepping his outstretched arm, you pulled your own blaster from your thigh and took off in a full sprint towards the target. The Mandalorian watched you with a mixture of shock and annoyance as he kindly provided suppressing fire and waited for the opportune moment to snipe the unwelcome guest.

He huffed, frustrated. He would have shot the would-be assailant already if you hadn’t been running so erratically, darting from left to right and back again. He thought it might be rude to accidentally shoot someone after a rather-good blow job.

He kept his blaster pointed at the shooter, but you seemed to be managing just fine as you scooped up a loose brick from the ground and lobbed in the general direction of the blaster fire. It hit the shooter with a thunk, stunning him.

You were just about to deal the fatal blow, finger on the trigger, the eye in the middle of the shooter’s orange face lined up in your crosshairs, but you were half-a-second too late.  
  
  


Suddenly, the would-be assailant crumbled to the ground in front of you. You stopped dead in your tracks, a wave of annoyance washing over you. Breathe. Of course, the culprit been struck by blaster fire right between his three eyes.

“You could’ve hit me,” you accused, turning around with your arms crossed over your half-naked chest. He was a bit offended. One, he had taken special care to _not_ hit you because of the aforementioned reason that it would be considered rude to shoot someone after a sexual favor. Two, he had great aim.

“No, I couldn’t have.”

You sighed, bending over to see if the failed-assailant was carrying anything valuable. He had a few credits, a pack of exotic smokes, and a bounty puck proudly displaying your face. Subtly, you examined it. At least it was a nice picture. You made a note to figure out who was putting a hit on you. You stuffed the puck into your pants and walked back towards the Mandalorian.

“Which one of us was the target?” He asked, as you tossed him half the credits. You shrugged.

“I didn’t have a chance to ask,” you responded, sarcastically. The Mandalorian grunted. There was always someone after him. And from the way you’d acted, you seemed like someone with enemies. “It wasn’t you.”

He nodded, stiffly. Why couldn’t he hook-up with _normal_ people. It always had to be bounty hunters, mercenaries, smugglers, spice-runners (not the legitimate kind), and one psychotic murderer (he could admit now that Xi’an was _probably_ a mistake). “Will you be safe?”

You smirked. “How sweet. I didn’t know you cared.” He brought his hands to his hips, exacerbated. He didn’t _care_ , he was just trying to be polite. Grabbing your jacket from the ground and dusting it off, you walked back towards the Mandalorian, stopping an inch from the visor.

“I’ll be fine, but I have to go. See you around, Mando,” you whispered. And just like that, before he could say a word, you were gone, disappearing into the night. 

** ** **

So, that was the charming story of how the two of you met. You blew him on a _classy_ side-street behind a cantina, and he got shot while in the middle of a particularly hard orgasm. Nobody knew. He expected it to stay that way, no matter how much Cara pried.

After your little rendezvous on the side-street behind the cantina, Mando was convinced he’d never see you again. He’d entertained the idea of hunting you, but Cara had scoffed at him after he’d expressed the slightest interest in tracking down a woman whom he “owed a favor.”

“Listen,” she’d said, propping her feet up onto the desk, “if she hasn’t come after you, then leave it be.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “trust me.”

So, that was that. He went back to hunting, saving up for a new ship, and loaning his skill-set out to Cara every once in awhile. He listened to the guild-gossip, thinking he might catch your name falling from the lips (or beaks or whatever) of some guild hunter. He never did.

He found that the more he moved, the less he missed the kid. So, he moved. He fell into a familiar rhythm and made peace with the fact that he’d never see you or hear from Luke Skywalker again.

And it was very likely he would have been correct about one of those beliefs had he not taken a particular job that Karga had described as “simple” (the lying bastard). As luck would have it, one thing led to another, mistakes were made, and of all the creatures, beings, droids in the galaxy, it was you who saved his dumb ass when shit hit the fan on Hosnian Prime.


	2. The Fortune Teller & Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The minute he’d entered the dingy shop, the fortune teller was on him. 
> 
> “You have kind eyes,” she’d said, even though she couldn’t see his face. Maybe that was the point. He thought to himself that if she could see them, they would not, in this moment, be anything close to the word ‘kind.’ 
> 
> “But you are lonely.” Beneath the helmet, he scoffed. A newborn Huttlet could have taken one look at a Mandalorian bounty hunter and provided that same insight. “You are looking for someone…”
> 
> “I just told you that,” he deadpanned.

** \- _The Fortune Teller on Hosnian Prime -_ **

Ten days into hunting a Chagrian with a debt that could’ve paid for the first Death Star, the Mandalorian found himself on Hosnian Prime. He had chased his bounty across half the fucking planet before seeing him disappear into a tent advertising palm readings and future-sightings.

In hindsight — not one of the services advertised at the shop — what happened to him inside the filthy tent was really his fault. All in all, the details of the whole incident weren't terribly important, but know that if he could do it over, he would have done a whole host of things differently.

The minute he’d entered the dingy shop, the fortune teller was on him.

“You have kind eyes,” she’d said, even though she couldn’t _see_ his face. Maybe that was the point. He thought to himself that if she _could_ see them, they would not, in this moment, be anything close to the word ‘kind.’

“But you are lonely.” Beneath the helmet, he scoffed. A newborn Huttlet could have taken one look at a Mandalorian bounty hunter and provided that same insight. “You are looking for someone…”

“I just told you that,” he deadpanned. It was true. Just moments earlier he had asked her if she’d seen a Chagrian — a grape colored blob with horns and pool noodles (the technical term was ‘tentacles’) attached to his head — pass through her shop. She’d said “yes,” then “no,” then “yes,” again which was the entire reason he was still standing there letting an old hag call him “lonely.”

So, that was his first mistake. He should _not_ have stayed in the tent with the fortune teller for no apparent reason other than she _might_ have seen his bounty. Other reasons for staying might have also included the dull ache in his joints, the sharp pain between his shoulder blades, and the ringing in his ears that had been going on for about three days or since he stood a little too close to a concussive blast. But he’d never admit to any of those reasons.

Second, if he could relive the entire encounter again, he would have thrown the seedy fortune teller across the room when he had the chance. She had given him several opportunities and reasons to do so. In particular, after he’d stupidly agreed to let her read his fortune in exchange for telling him where the Chagrian had scurried off to, she’d tried to put her wrinkly hands all over his armor.

“I must _touch_ you, Mandalorian, for this to work,” the fortune teller huffed. Despite his attempts to maintain his distance, she seemed entirely undaunted by him and everything he stood for. She had pushed forward, marching towards him with resolve and determination in her twitching eye until she had successfully backed him into a large, decorative (at least he’d hoped it was only decorative) statue of a naked Twi’lek male.

His ass collided with a very prominent, marble penis. In his head, he groaned — _not_ in a sexual way, in a “fuck, this-lady-is-pressing-her-musty-smelling-body-against-my-recently-polished-beskar” kind of way. He had debated just throwing her across the room then, he really did, but if he was being honest (he was always honest) the Twi’lek dick poking into his asscheeks created a troublesome distraction. It was _so_ incredibly distracting that when she’d let out a frustrated sigh and touched the pad of her finger to the beskar chest plate, he just stood there.

But if he were to do it again, it would have been the perfect moment to launch her through the flimsy roof of the tent or pry the marble penis off of the Twi’lek statute and beat her senseless with it. Bet she wouldn’t have foreseen either of those things.

Unfortunately, he had neither jettisoned her from her own shop nor beat her with a prosthetic Twi’lek dick, and as a result, he found himself stuck in a corner when the Chagrian he’d been searching for grabbed him out of nowhere and stuck a needle in his neck.

That’s right. A series of poor decisions led to him being stabbed by his bounty. That leads to the third thing he would have done differently: not get poisoned by his bounty.

As he toppled off to the ground, landing on the tasteless carpet with an extremely loud thud, the Chagrian bent over him. His would-be murderer’s horned-tentacles flopped onto his helmet as he inspected the Mandalorian, or more specifically, his armor, before rising to his full height and approaching the fortune teller. Laying on the ground, visor level with a particularly meaty cluster of dust bunnies, the Mandalorian realized he couldn’t move but was still somewhat aware of his surroundings. At least for the time being.

First rule of poisoning someone: you should probably be decent at math. The Chagrian had probably underestimated his weight. Was that a compliment? His vision swam as he ruminated on whether it was or not. The hideous chartreuse light illuminating the room was flickering now and the whole tent was spinning.

“Took you long enough,” The Mandalorian heard the fortune teller say to the Chagrian. Or maybe she said he looked tough. Or he had a lot of stuff. The Chagrian seemed to shrug, his thick blue tentacles bouncing slightly on his shoulders. Those had looked like _a lot_ of fun to play with. Grogu would love them. Or try to eat them. Or both.

The Mandalorian was vaguely aware that the Chagrian were was approaching him again, crouching to stick his ugly face in front of the visor. The fucker was definitely going to try to remove the helmet.

“Wait.” The fortune teller ordered. The Chagrian stopped. Thank fuck. When the Chagrian turned the face the old woman, she had a blaster pointed in at his face. It occurred to the Mandalorian that if she were to blow his bounty’s brains out in that moment, they would have splattered all over his armor. It had bothered him enough that he tried to roll out of the splash zone, but he was more or less paralyzed at this point.

“You’re going to kill me and take the armor for yourself,” the Chagrian grunted. He was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. It was fairly obvious what the fortune teller was doing. At this point. the Mandalorian had started to lose consciousness. When the Chagrian lunged at the fortune teller, all he saw was a blue blob flying through the air.

Growing weaker by the second, his limbs were glued to the rug — possibly literally because there was something seriously sticky on his beskar. It had dawned on him he was going to die and get robbed on the ugliest, dirtiest fucking rug in the galaxy, illuminated by a grotesque chartreuse light. He tried to groan, but he couldn’t even do that.

For the time being, the Chagrian and fortune teller had seemed to have forgotten about him. While they were busy breaking anything and everything around the dingy tent, the cacophony of sounds was suddenly broken up by someone throwing the fucking sun into the tiny room. It hadn’t really been the sun of course, but a flash grenade. When the room finally stopped looking like the a supernova exploded, he saw the Chagrian and fortune teller both turn and look up at a gaping hole in the tent fabric.

The fourth and final thing he would have done differently was not pass out. Of course, he _did_ actually end up passing out, and the last thing he saw before he did was a hooded figure and the muzzle of a double-barrel blaster. Then everything went black. Maybe he didn’t really have much control over it, but Mandalorians were all about _tenacity_ , and he’s sure if he had just fought a bit harder, he could have avoided succumbing to unconsciousness.

That about exhausted the list of things he would have changed. Surprisingly, it was not as expansive has he had originally thought. More surprisingly, however, was that part of him knew that if he could, in fact, go back and do it all again, he wouldn’t do anything differently because being poisoned on Hosnian Prime was what led him back to you.

** \- _The Second Meeting And A Lesson About Planning_ - **

The thing about plans is they never play out like they’re supposed to. Case in point, the shit show that was Hosnian Prime. So, suffice to say you hadn’t _planned_ on saving the Mandalorian and hauling his heavy, shiny ass _and_ his tentacled, blue bounty off of the planet.

Of course, after you rescued the Mandalorian and sedated his bounty, you came up with an entirely new plan that consisted of four parts. One, making sure your potential-future-fuck-buddy didn’t die on your watch. Two, reprimanding him for not being more careful — not because you cared but because if he hadn’t been poisoned, you wouldn’t have had to stage a rescue. Three, maybe fucking him at some point, but it wasn’t going to be _meaningful sex_. And four, dropping him and his bounty off wherever they needed to go.

It had been a good plan. You were committed to the plan. Then, he woke up and the whole plan went out the damn window.

On his part, the Mandalorian almost always had a plan. And a back up plan. And a back up, back up plan. For all the planning he did (usually ‘in the moment,’ but that still counts as planning), he could count on one hand the number of times his plan or back up plans actually worked out smoothly. This was no exception.

When he regained consciousness, he woke up to a blinding white light, and his first thought was that he was dying. No point in making a plan if you’re dying.

But then the white grew dimmer and softer by the second, until it faded into a pale halo of color wrapping up the individual vertebrae of a (human?) spine. Instantly, fight or flight kicked in. Thank fuck he was still wearing the helmet, but most of his other armor was scattered about the…ship? He thought it was a ship.

When he figured out that he was not, in fact, dying in that moment, he quickly formulated his first plan. One, kill his kidnapper. Two, get his armor. Three, steal the ship. Four, find some pain medications for his throbbing headache. Easy enough. Right? Wrong. Before he could spring into action, the sound of your voice — a voice he _recognized_ as belonging to the person who’d asked him if his dick was made of beskar because that’s not the type of thing one easily forgets — broke through his thoughts and fucked his plans eight ways to Sunday.

“Oh good. You’re awake,” you said. 

And just like that, he was back to square one.

When you turned around and faced him, the first thing he noticed was that you looked…concerned. Brows furrowed, hands clutching a medical kit, you seemed to be fighting an inner battle through something in your head. While you rehearsed the plan in your head and briefly wondered if you could move sex to the top of the list, the Mandalorian just sat there and stared. And holy fuck, he looked angry.

You had _not_ planned for angry. New plan. 

He wasn’t actually sure where the anger originated. His body had been buzzing with adrenaline, and for some reason, his recently-drugged brain had made up his mind that you were in on the whole thing and tried to poison him and steal his armor. Maybe you’d even planned the whole thing from the very beginning.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He’d practically barked at you.

“I sure fucking hope that’s Mando’a for ‘thank you for saving my sorry ass.’” You snapped back. You shoved him back towards the bed much harder than you needed to, slamming the beskar helmet into to the ship’s wall hard enough to create a dent. So far so good on the ‘ _don’t let the Mandalorian die on your watch_ ’ part of the plan.

Muttering a string of curses followed by something along the lines of ‘you ungrateful metal jerk,’ you finally managed to maneuver one very uncooperative Mandalorian into a seated position on the bed. You made a half-assed attempt to get him to lie down, but sighed and gave up when he slapped your hands away.

“Stop fussing,” he ordered. “What did you say about saving me?”

“I overheard your bounty talking to an alchemist about taking out a Mandalorian, stealing his armor, and splitting the profits. I didn’t know how many Mandalorians were traversing the galaxy, so I followed him. I didn’t know he was talking about you,” you explained, trying to keep your voice level. “When I caught up, your bounty and that old hag of a fortune teller had already poisoned you. I grabbed you, and got you both out of there.”

“Both of us?”

“The bounty is in the hold,” you informed him. “I handcuffed and drugged him. Should I have secured the tentacles?” You asked, only half joking.

“Need to take him to Nevarro,” he grunted. So, no ‘thank you,’ and he completely ignored your question. Wait, did he say Nevarro? You frowned. Fuck. 

You shook your head. “Can’t go to Nevarro.”

“What?”

“I said, I can’t go to Nevarro,” you repeated. “We have to go back and get your ship.”

“I don’t have a ship. Why can’t we go to Nevarro?” Irritation bled through the vocoder, and you sighed.

“Being hunted. I know who it is, I just have to take them out. Get them to take the bounty off my head,” you explained. “And, if you don’t have a ship, how have you been chasing your bounty?”

The plan was to take him where he needed to go. It could have been _anywhere_ in the galaxy. Any planet, any system, any moon. Anywhere _except_ Nevarro. So, of course, that’s where he needed to go.

“I borrowed a ship,” he answered, absently. He was thinking, coming up with a new plan. He didn’t care about the ship, it was just a means to an end. Besides, the owner, a former bounty, was dead (technically, dying when he boarded — he may or may not have accelerated the dying, but the point was, he was dying), and the ship belonged to the Pykes, so it wasn’t practical to fly it around the galaxy anyway.

He had to get the bounty to Karga. The Chagrian, as it turned out, was a slippery fucker (not that Karga had bothered to tell him that), and it wasn’t wise to keep him for longer than necessary. Killing you and stealing your ship was not an option.

“You could come with me, then I could take you to Nevarro after I take care of the bounty situation.” Well, that was one option. Might as well hear you out.

“What makes you think whoever put the hit out on you is just going drop it?” You shrugged. Honestly, you hadn’t thought that far. Again, planning was not your forte.

“I was just going to shoot him and…cancel the bounty?” You sounded unsure because you _were_ unsure, and you were pretty sure the Mandalorian was laughing at you or, at the very least, mocking you behind the mask.

“It doesn’t work like that,” he told you, plainly. “The client has to call it off.”

“Well, then, I can point a blaster at him until he calls it off,” you stated, as-a-matter-of-factly. Mando exhaled, exacerbated.

“And you think that’s going to be easy?” He retorted. “You’re basically turning yourself in, you realize that right?” And you did. You totally did. “Someone _paid_ for you to be brought in, and you’re doing their job for them. Whoever they are, what if they shoot you on the spot?”

To that, you had nothing to say. You hadn’t thought about that. Usually, you just shot first. In your experience, you found that it was a good strategy to avoid being shot. You ran through a few options in your head, but your were finding it hard to focus with the Mandalorian now sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread apart, arms crossed in front of his armor-less chest.

Focus. “Could kill the guild agent?” You suggested, mostly joking.

“We’re not killing Karga.” Mando almost laughed. Where were you when Karga and the guild were trying to take his head off after he’d run off with Grogu?

“Who said ‘we?’”

“ _No,_ ” he said, firmly. “Who put the bounty out on you? You said you knew.”

“Oh, yeah. Uh…some new boss in the Hutt Clan…Boba Fett.” This time, the Mandalorian _actually_ laughed, the sound, even distorted by the vocoder was sweeter than you’d expected coming from the bounty hunter. It was rich and deep, and really, _really_ , made you want to jump straight to the ‘get fucked’ part of your plan and leave the rest for later.

“This could work,” Mando said, once he’d recovered. “What did you do to Fett?” Once again, you shrugged. You didn’t know. Why would you know. You did, however, have a very strong feeling it had to do with shooting a Hutt Clan conduit during an arms deal.

The Mandalorian watched you. Well, he watched the way your eyes would drift down to his groin as your pink tongue darted out and licked your lips. You were standing there, practically naked, dressed in a pair of unreasonably short shorts with a strip of black fabric covering your tits. He shook his head. No, he wouldn’t let you pull him into your debauchery before you had a coherent plan.

“If whatever you did to him wasn’t _too_ bad, I might be able to talk him down,” he said.

“You want to negotiate.”

“Something like that, but I need to know what you did to him. Are you a hunter?” You weren’t a hunter. He had to know that.

“Something like that.” The Mandalorian watched as you squirmed, his line of questioning clearly striking a nerve or making you uncomfortable. You dropped your hands to your side. “Can we talk about this after?”

“After what?” He asked. Instead of answering, you approached him slowly, stopping to stand between his legs. You couldn’t possibly be serious right now. Your hands, which had been grasping his shoulders, trailed down his body, pausing on his pecs and abs, finally stopping right above the waistband of his pants.

“After you fuck me, of course,” you said, dead serious. He was going to protest, really, he was, but then you ground your his against his lightly before taking his hands in your own and bringing them up to your breasts. Keeping your hands on top of his, you guided them under the fabric, inhaling sharply when, without your direction, he experimentally rolled one of your sensitive nipples between his calloused fingers. You moaned.

This was not the _plan_ , he thought. Maybe he should’ve conveyed it aloud. “This was not the plan,” he pointed out, but the effect was unremarkable considering the fact his hands were still on your tits.

“Fuck the plan,” you whispered, crowding his space until you were practically on his lap. His hands trailed from your breasts down to your ass, grabbing handfuls of your asscheeks and squeezing.

“If we did it your way, Fett would’ve shot you the second he saw your pretty face,” Mando said, gently taking your face into his hands and tilting it, as if he was inspecting it carefully.

“You think I’m pretty?” You gushed. He rolled his eyes and smacked your ass, playfully. You were such a fucking pain, maybe it wasn’t even worth getting rescued.

“You’re not getting out of this conversation, you understand that, right?” He reminded you, even as his hands found their way to your waist, wrapping around you possessively and bringing you impossibly close to him. “I can fuck you, then we can talk, or if you don’t want me to fuck you, you can just talk.”

Wordlessly, you put some distance between your bodies and shimmied out of your shorts and panties until you were standing bare in front of the Mandalorian. Watching yourself in the reflection of his beskar, you slid two of your own fingers your mouth and sucked on them obscenely until they were dripping with your saliva before bringing them down to play with your wet folds. He watched as you gasped softly as your fingers disappeared between your legs.

“So, do you want me to fuck you first?” He asked as if he didn’t already know, but he wanted to hear you say it. 

“ _Yes_ ,” you practically purred. _Demanding_ , he thought. Then, immediately, his hands were on you. He was greedy with his touches, hands on your hips, lingering on your ass, finding their way back to your ribcage, tits, thighs. Everywhere he touched, he set your soft skin on fire until, finally, his hands were on your pussy, fingers replacing yours as he slid the tip of his finger into you before sliding it out again way too soon. Fucking tease.

“You _are_ pretty, don’t let it get to your head though,” he said, voice husky and quivering, like he was barely in control of himself right now. You mewled as he buried two of his fingers knuckle-deep in your tight pussy. Fuck, you wanted _more._

“Please fuck me,” you pleaded. “Mando, please…” At the sound of your insistent begging, his cock twitched, straining against his pants. You practically pouted at him as you bucked into his hand, groaning when your clit grazed his palm. He sighed, wrapping one, strong arm around your body and flipping your positions so you ended up under him. He lifted you up and threw you on the bed and gestured for you to move back until you were lying down.

Pausing over you, he took a moment to rake his eyes over all of you, memorizing the look on your face while you were wanting and craving him, every scar, tattoo, cybernetic on your body, the way the cords of your muscles wrapped around your arms and legs signifying your quiet strength.

When he unzipped his pants and pulled out his hard, leaking cock, you ran your tongue all over your lips before biting down hard enough to draw blood. He cock was big, uncut, curved slightly upwards and all you wanted was to feel the weight of him inside you; inside your mouth, inside your pussy, it didn’t matter. “Fuck me, Mando,” you whimpered.

He was more than happy to oblige. Keeping your legs together, he maneuvered them so your calfs rested on one of his shoulders and positioned himself at your entrance. He looked down at you, zeroing in on the way your pupils were the size of dinner plates. Groaning, he pushed into your wet heat.

“Fuck, you’re tight.” He hissed, when he was completely inside of you. You beamed up at him, a radiant smile that had no business searing itself into his brain. He rocked into you, gently once, twice, before saying “fuck it” (literally) and slamming his cock into you at full force.

With each thrust, your entire body slid back on the bed. Your toes hit the ship’s wall, and you used the leverage to steady yourself and keep your head from slamming into the wall, too.

As your vision started to blackout around the edges, suddenly, he stopped. Keeping his cock buried deep inside you, your eyes snapped open and needy sound spilled from your lips.

“Don’t want to cum yet,” he gritted out. He brought a hand to the base of his length and squeezed, fighting back his orgasm. Feeling reckless (really more of a constant state of being for you than a passing feeling), you wiggled your hips and squeezed your pussy around his cock, coaxing a throaty moan from him.

“Be good,” the Mandalorian chastised.

“Make me,” you challenged. He practically snarled as he wrapped his arm tight around your thighs and pulled you up and towards him. He brought his other hand down to cup your ass and lifted your hips off the mattress before pounding his cock into you like he was trying to fuck you through the wall and send you spiraling into deep space.

“And here, I thought you’d be a good girl for me,” he chided.

“Not a g-good girl for anyone.” You shot back, gasping as he hit your g-spot again and again. When let go of your ass and began to play with your clit, you arched your back off the bed and screamed for him. Despite your apparently uncontrollable defiance, he muttered sweet praises as he kept fucking you and rubbing circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“S’okay. You don’t have to be anyone’s g-good girl,” he stammered. He wasn’t sure you’d even heard him because you were a _mess_ below him; head thrown back, hands searching for purchase on the sheets.

“Don’t stop. Gonna cum,” you gasped. Blindly, you reached for him. He’d been prepared to stay back and watch you cum, but your hands were grasping for him like he was your fucking _lifeline_ and he gave in. Setting your legs down on either side of him, he wrapped both his arms around your quivering body and pulled you towards him, tipping both of you backwards until you were straddling him while he knelt on the bed.

Having his knees folded and heels digging into his butt cheeks should have been uncomfortable, but when your arms snaked around his helmet and pulled him towards your chest as you came…he didn’t _care_ that he was too fucking old for this particular sex position. You cried out as your orgasm overtook you, the scorching heat that had been building in your core finally washing over you in wave, after wave, after wave of all-consuming pleasure that filled the corners of your vision with stars.

As you came down from your high, body still shaking and pressed tight against the Mandalorian, the only thought on your mind was that he hadn’t cum yet.

When he tried to pull away, you stopped him, holding his helmet tighter and rocking your sensitive, drenched pussy against him. Electricity travelled from your core through your entire body but you pushed passed it, continuing to grind against him like nothing else mattered in the world except his impending orgasm.

For a moment, he was limp in your arms, torn between pushing you off of him — because you clutching his helmet was probably the most intimate thing he’d done since he became of age in the creed — and pulling you closer.

Against all  good reasonable judgment, he gathered you into his arms, drowning in your touch. His breath hitched when he felt the metal of your mechanized forearms digging into collarbone, but when he lifted the helmet from your chest for the briefest of moments and he met your eyes, his uncertainty dissipated and was replaced by a surge of warmth.

His hands clawed at your cybernetic spine, finding an unexpected comfort in the curious, barely-there vibrations emanating from its component parts. With one arm holding you impossibly close, he placed the other behind him, giving him more leverage to thrust into you. It wasn’t long before his breathing sped up. “C-close.” He managed to communicate between shallow breaths.

You weren’t even sure he could hear you with your cheek rested against the top of his helmet, but when you whispered, “I bet you could make me your good girl,” he heard it loud and fucking clear and it sent him flying over the edge, and he came hard inside you. Breathlessly, he mumbled fragments of incoherent sentences in a combination of basic and Mando’a, until reality returned to him piece by piece.

You waited for his breathing to even out before peeling your sticky, sweaty body off of his. Wordlessly, you got dressed in the shorts you’d been wearing and wandered to the refresher to clean up.

Inside with the door closed, you almost burst out laughing at your reflection in the mirror. You were a hot mess. Hair mussed, makeup smudged, and a spattering of bruises blossoming over your hipbones.

So, let’s review. You had successfully kept him from dying on your watch. Good. You hadn’t reprimanded him all. And as for meaningless sex, well the sex was great. Meaningless? You weren’t actually sure you'd even tried. Lastly, you weren’t even taking him where he needed to go.

When you walked out, the Mandalorian was on his feet, gathering up the pieces of his armor which had been strewn across the floor of your ship.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” you apologized, gesturing to his armor. “You were burning up when I brought you in, so I wanted to get it off you fast. The helmet never came off.”

“Okay.” Not really _forgiveness_ but you didn’t really want to pick that fight. “We need a plan for Tatooine. And to start, I need to know who you shot. Since you are, obviously, a mercenary.” You opened your mouth to fire back, but it occurred to you that he might have been teasing you.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay, fine. I’m a _mercenary,_ and it was one of the Hutt Clan’s arms smugglers.” The Mandalorian bit back a chuckle. Of course you did. “Can you get him to call it off?”

“Maybe, if you can give him something in exchange.” You were quiet for a moment, thinking.

“Okay,” you agreed. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice. “We’ll need to get an audience with Fett, and I’d rather him not shoot me on-site.” This was a pain. You hated planning.

“I know him. I can contact him and let him know we’re coming.” 

“And say what? ‘Hey Fett, buddy, I’ve got your bounty with me. But wait, don’t shoot her yet.’”

The Mandalorian looked thoroughly unamused.“What if I turn you in as my bounty?” He suggested.

You hummed. “That could work. What will we do with the Chagrian?”

“Lock him in the hold?” You agreed. You weren’t thrilled with the idea of keeping the alien on your ship, but what other choice did you have? It wasn’t like you had an abundance of other options.

“We can go over the details in a bit.” He nodded. “I’m going to head up to the cockpit. I’ll set our course for Tatooine,” you continued. “Let me know if you need me. There’s rations…somewhere,” you waved your hand around indiscriminately. Helpful. “Check on the bounty, if you want. He’s probably still alive — ”

“It’s fine if he’s dead, better if he’s alive though.”

“Sure, but if he’s not, alive, I mean, I don’t want him escaping. I don’t usually keep live targets on my ship,” you quipped. He held back a snicker.“I’ll come get you when we drop out of hyperspace.”

“Hey,” he called out to you, just before you disappeared beyond the threshold. You turned to face him. “Thank you, um, for getting me out of there. You didn’t have to save me.”

You smirked, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning up against the door jamb. “Well, ah, at that point, I knew it was you, and I didn’t want you to die and get robbed,” you shrugged like it was no big deal. Like it was part and parcel to your existence that you didn’t want him to die, and that you’d known from the moment you’d met him that if he was in danger of dying from an unknown poison, well, obviously you’d save his sorry self and haul his shiny ass and also his bounty off of the planet.

“And,” you continued, “I think you already thanked me, yeah? But, if you want to, you know, thank me again…feel free to come up to the cockpit.”

As he watched you turn and leave, he rehashed the new plan. One, deliver you — his fake bounty — to Boba Fett on Tatooine. Two, negotiate a deal to get Fett to call of the bounty on you. Three, finally deliver the Chagrian to Karga in Nevarro. Four, stop and visit Cara because he wasn’t particularly interested in her crushing his skull with her boot because he decided to skip this step. And finally, five,  ~~tell you he’d like to see you again ~~~~part ways with you~~ probably never see you again.

It was simple plan. A good plan. One he’d carried out countless times since joining the guild. So, naturally, it was a plan that absolutely had to fail.


	3. A Plan Fails Spectacularly on Tatooine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, this is kind of hot,” you mused as he slapped the cuffs on you and tightened them. “Actually, really hot. Or would be if you were planning on fucking me and not dragging me through the desert as your fake prisoner.” 
> 
> “Who says I won’t just hand you off to Fett?” 
> 
> Your jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”
> 
> “I just might.” You pouted. “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s go before it gets too hot.” 
> 
> “It’s already too hot,” you mumbled. As the onboarding ramp raised, Tatooine and all its sandy glory came into view. The desert hell-hole was still dark but for a sliver of one of the planet’s dual suns beginning to creep over the horizon, offering up the promise of daylight far too soon. 

**\- A Plan Fails Spectacularly on Tatooine -**

“You know, this is kind of hot,” you mused as he slapped the cuffs on you and tightened them. “Actually, really hot. Or would be if you were planning on fucking me and not dragging me through the desert as your fake prisoner.” 

“Who says I won’t just hand you off to Fett?” 

Your jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

“I just might.” You pouted. “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s go before it gets too hot.” 

“It’s already too hot,” you mumbled. As the onboarding ramp raised, Tatooine and all its sandy glory came into view. The desert hell-hole was still dark but for a sliver of one of the planet’s dual suns beginning to creep over the horizon, offering up the promise of daylight far too soon. 

As the ramp landed on the sand, kicking up a cloud of dust, the Mandalorian tugged on the handcuffs and pulled you towards him until your back was flush against the front of his body. As you collided with the cold beskar, he leaned in close and said, voice low, “for the record, next time you’re in handcuffs, it’ll be while my cock is buried inside your sweet little pussy.” You shuddered. 

“Now,” he said, straightening up, “move it, bounty.” He shoved you lightly onto the ramp, and you were off. Just you, him, your stellar plan, and the early dawn spread out against the desert sky. 

******

Step one of the plan was to make it to the palace without dying of heat exhaustion. 

Less than a third of the way there, the suns, both of which eventually rose, beat down on your backs as you made your way over miles of sand dunes and absolute nothingness.

You’d wanted to borrow a speeder, but Mando was set on cooking the both of you to a crisp. Perhaps it had to do with building character. Although, more likely than not, it had to do with not getting sidetracked and giving any desert-crawlers a chance to murder you before you made it to Fett’s place. 

You grumbled and complained the whole way there. Mando only thought about abandoning you once or twice. So, all in all. Step one, was a success. 

******

Step two involved getting an audience with Fett. 

As you approached the beige structure jutting out of the sand and dust, you were drenched in sweat. Maker, you hated the fucking desert. You hated the barren dunes, the absolute dearth of life. You hated the oppressive heat. You hated sand. And you absolutely hated the sight of a large, heavily armed Devaornian stalking towards you. 

The alien’s horns and teeth were recently sharpened. And judging from the way he bared his teeth in a menacing grin as he looked back and forth between you and the Mandalorian, he had been eager to show them off. 

No introductions were necessary, apparently, as the alien simply greeted the Mandalorian with a grunt before stepping into your space, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body. 

“Ah, good. The mercenary,” he drawled. “I thought you’d bring her in cold.” What you wouldn’t give to be cold right now. You stood as stiff as a board as his rough hands came up to your face, brushing over your features with a disturbing curiosity. “But then again, I guess she is more useful warm,” he laughed, obnoxiously, as he grabbed your cheek with his hand and pinched it slightly. You scowled.

“I’ll take her from here, hunter,” the Devaronian attempted to grab you, but the Mandalorian instantly shoved him backwards, causing him to very nearly lose his balance. 

“I hand her to Fett myself,” the Mandalorian demanded. 

The alien snarled. “Boss is busy.” 

“I’ll wait,” Mando replied. The Devaronian’s beady eyes narrowed. A tense silence descended between the three of you, interrupted only by muffled voices coming from the throne room downstairs. 

Already, you were brainstorming alternative options. Mando had insisted you leave almost every weapon you could think of behind, save for a vibro-shiv tucked so far between your legs that every time you took a step, you found yourself in an intimate relationship with the blade’s hilt. 

You could stab him, but the time it would take you to bend over in cuffs and reach that far up between your legs would be more than enough for the Devaronian to shoot you. Or stab you. Or electrocute you. The alien carried almost as many weapons as the Mandalorian. He could get creative with it, and you weren’t looking to die by having your head lobbed off by an axe. 

Meanwhile, the image of the Devaronian caressing your face was playing on loop in the Mandalorian’s head. He half-expected you to bite his sausage finger off right then and there, but instead, you were demonstrating some impressive restraint and good behavior. He’d have to remember that for later. 

The Devaronian finally broke the silence, shoulders sagging as he grumbled, “wait here,” then stomped off down the stone steps. When he returned, surrounding by a new air of annoyance, he offered up an apology. You accepted it with a smug smile on your face, even though the apology (“I apologize for the mix-up. You are always welcome here”) was offered to the Mandalorian and not to you.) Mando said nothing. 

“The boss is this way, come with me,” he growled, gesturing of you to follow him into the cool underbelly of the palace. 

You were sunburnt, marinating in your own sweat, and had just been felt up by a brutish alien, but step two was complete. You were on a roll.

******

Step three — get Fett to drop the bounty — was where things started going to shit. 

Boba Fett, who was seated on the throne formerly occupied by Bib Fortuna and before him, Jabba the Hutt, was happy enough to see the Mandalorian. 

“Mando!” He greeted, pleasantly. He removed the helmet, setting it gently in his lap. The bounty-hunter-turned-crime-lord’s face was marred with a patchwork of scars, a reflection of a lifetime of moving through the galaxy as one of the most storied hunters before he met his temporary demise at the hand of a Jedi. 

The problem wasn’t Fett, it was the woman seated to the right of Fett, carrying a blaster rifle that was practically half of her height. Fennec Shand. 

And she didn’t even wait to become a problem. Before anyone could say another word, Shand pulled out a small, DC-17 hand blaster and fired a shot in your direction. Mando’s arm shot out, and the laser deflected off the beskar with a ‘ping.’ Thank the Maker for quick reactions and beskar. 

Instantly, he pointed his own blaster at Shand, who kept her weapon raised. Fett’s associates raised their weapons as well, surrounding you with an array of tech-staffs, blades, blasters, carbines, rail guns, and a flame thrower — which just seemed like overkill. You felt left out of the fun. 

Irritation spread across Fett’s face because you were acting like children. Fett bit back a loud sigh and suppressed his desire to shoot everyone in the room, instead opting to raise his hand, calmly, and request that everyone lower their weapons. 

Shand doubled down and fired again, striking the beskar once more. Mando was practically standing in front of you at this point, while you fumbled with your cuffs and tried to get your hands on the vibro-blade, or, even better, one of Mando’s blasters. Fett sighed. Audibly this time. This was going to be fun. 

******

“You’re acting childish,” the Mandalorian accused Shand once Fett got (almost) everyone to lower their weapons. Shand’s blaster was still pointed at you, but Mando had his pistol pointed at her. 

She scoffed. “Aren’t you supposed to be ruling a planet?”

What now? Your head snapped up, accidentally colliding with the wall of beskar in front of you. “Ow.” The Mandalorian acted as if you weren’t there. You filed the conversation away for later. You know, if Fennec didn’t shoot you. 

“Fett, tell her to put the blaster down.” 

“Doesn’t seem like my business,” the crime boss said, leaning back in his seat. 

“Look, I don’t even know what I did,” you chimed in, rubbing the growing welt on your forehead. 

“Stealing my speeder and ditching me in New Republic territory after you found out about a planned raid wasn’t memorable enough for you?”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” you quipped. Immediately after the words left your mouth, you knew it was a the wrong thing to say. But it was too late to take it back, now. Shand pulled a second blaster from her hip and pointed this one at you, too. 

This was going so well. The Mandalorian looked at Fett, who seemed to be enjoying the show. He was grateful for the mask covering his face right about now because he swore the vein in his forehead was going to pop. 

******

“OW,” you screamed, as Shand’s shot landed squarely on your thigh. You gripped your now-smoking leg and crumbled to the ground. You definitely deserved that, but FUCK. 

For a fleeting moment, you thought Mando might defend your honor and shoot her back, but instead, without missing a beat, he reached one arm down and hauled you off the ground as if you’d tripped over your own two feet rather than taking a fucking laser to your thigh. 

“So, what can we offer you in exchange for you dropping the bounty?” Mando asked, launching straight into negotiations. 

“It’s ‘we’ now, is it?” Fett teased. 

“Nope, just me,” you corrected. “What can I give you?” You cocked your head to give Mando ‘a look.’ 

“Shame,” Fett hummed. “I had more of a two person job in mind.” 

You were in the middle of forming the word ‘no,’ when a searing pain erupted from the blaster wound, setting your entire soul on fire and dropping you down to the cold, stone, floor with a pathetic thud. 

“What’s the job?” Mando asked, not even sparing a moment to cast his eyesight downwards. You groaned. That wasn’t the plan.

A small smile tugged upwards at Fett’s lips. “You sure you know what you’re getting into Mando?” Only then did the Mandolorian glance down at you, briefly, before nodding at Fett. The latter leaned forward in his seat and chuckled. “Okay, then.” 

******

So, it hadn’t been the original plan, but to the Mandalorian, it was close enough. He took the job because it was the right thing to do and certainly not because he wasn’t ready to part ways with you. 

The job, it turned out, was the complete package. That is, it had everything he hated — a black market droid manufacturer, the thriving underworld of a core system where he had at least one bounty on his head and a few outstanding arrest warrants, and the ever-threatening presence of the New Republic and remnants of the Empire breathing down your backs. Just the thought of drowning in the sea of people, traveling through the persistently-loud, neon-filled streets made his heart-rate spike. 

He was beginning to regret his decision to accept, but then you’d smiled at him and mouthed ‘thank you,’ and it went straight to his dick or his heart or both. He chose to think about it as the former because it was too early to realize that he was so fucked. 

You had limped away from the palace as soon as you could, muttering under your breath the entire time, something about ‘a tub of bacta’ and ‘burning Tatooine to the ground.’ Mando lingered behind. 

“I’d be interested in hearing how you ended up here with her,” Fett said, snickering slightly as he watched you struggle to get up the steep steps. 

“It’s a long story,” Mando sighed. “For another time.”

Fett nodded. “I was surprised to hear you were here…with her,” he said, thoughtfully. “When Fennec told me that you had won the Darksaber in combat, I thought you would have returned to you covert with it; with you as Manda’lor, you would give the Watch a precious chance to bring The Way back to Mandalore, like they’ve always wanted.” 

“Covert is gone,” Mando replied, sorrow evident in his voice. He chose to ignore the bit about the Watch. 

“Ah, sorry to hear that.” 

“There are other Mandalorians. When the Darksaber is in the right hands, I will help find them and bring them home.” 

“When the Darksaber is in the right hands?” Fett crossed is arms and raised a brow at the Mandalorian. “You won’t rule then?” 

“No.” 

“Hm. I don’t blame you, politics are a drag,” sympathized Fett. “But you can’t run forever, you know. Seems to me like you’re gallivanting across the galaxy with her to buy time.” Beneath the helmet, the Mandalorian scoffed. “Sooner or later, you’ll find something you’ll want to hold onto."

What he wanted to hold onto was this life. If he couldn’t have a quiet life with Grogu, then he wanted to chase every half-assed plan (with you?) and help reunite Mandalorians across the galaxy until he couldn’t anymore. 

His mind replayed the memory of Bo-Katan saying to him ‘not all Mandalorians are bounty hunters. Some of us serve a higher purpose,’ but he didn’t know where else he fit into this world, and he had liked where he fit into everything before she so rudely made him second guess himself. So, now he had to start all over — with one less foundling and one more legendary weapon — trying find a way to accept his place all over again. 

He didn’t say that, and said instead, “I had a covert, now they’re all dead or have scattered across the galaxy. I had a foundling, and I gave him to a Jedi. We don’t always get what we want,” Mando replied, flatly.

“No, we certainly don’t,” Fett agreed. “But, if this is what you want,” he said, nodding to where you had been standing (struggling) moments before, “she might be more trouble than she’s worth. You might never stop running.” 

The Mandalorian glanced up the stairs to where you were waiting, just in time to catch you peering around the corner with the most impatient look on your face. Never stop running, huh? He might just be okay with that. 

He bid farewell to Fett, the latter wishing him luck with a sincerity that was a bit disconcerting, and joined you outside the palace. Reunited with the expanse of desert ahead of you, together, you slowly began making your way the ship. 

******

  
Step four was make it back to the ship in one piece. 

With you on one leg and an ocean of sand, it had not, thus far, been a speedy journey. And it was about to get a whole lot worse. 

You hissed in pain as you tripped forward. Mando caught you before your knees could collide with the sand. You fucking hated the desert. You wished the Death-Star had blown up this wasteland and not Alderaan. Honestly. You took a labored breath as Mando pulled you back to your feet. 

“We can stop,” he offered. 

“No, it’s getting dark. Don’t wanna fight sand people today.” Or any day, really. You stifled a pained sound and a string of curses as you stumbled forward. “It’s just a blaster shot, I’m fine.” 

“Pretty sure I can see your bone,” Mando snorted. 

“Fuck off.” 

“A little closer and we can jet the rest of the way,” Mando actually looked apologetic as he propped you up. As you righted yourself, you saw something approaching from the distance. Against the tawny, orange backdrop of an arching sand dune, stood a blurry, cerulean splotch. Your eyes widened. 

“Hey…Mando, after we drugged the bounty, we secured him in the hold, right?” 

“We did,” he confirmed, looking out at blue outline in the distance wavering in the blazing heat. Through the helmet, he could make out the Chagrian standing, rather unsteadily, at the summit of the sandy hill. He swayed left to right trying to keep his balance. “Dank farrick.” 

“Well, at least he didn’t fly off with the ship,” you quipped. 

“Yeah, well, he did make off with a long-range sonic rifle.” Mando handed you a pair of binoculars so you could get a better look. You weren’t sure you wanted a better look. Part of you was perfectly content thinking that something else blue and pointy had decided to grace Tatooine with its presence, maybe some exotic desert fauna. Begrudgingly, you snatched the binoculars from the Mandalorian and pointed them towards the blue aura. 

“Why does he look drunk?” You handed the binoculars back to Mando. 

“Probably the drugs.” 

“This is why I don’t do live bounties,” you griped. “Can you shoot him from here?” 

“No, too far.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Good news is, he’s too far to hit us, even with that sonic rifle. Bad news is...we have to get closer if we want to have a shot.” Mando took one last look through the binoculars before putting them in his pack. 

“What if we waited until it was dark?” You suggested 

“Not going to work with you on one leg.” You looked lamely down at your injured leg. It really was just a blaster shot, but from close range, it’d taken off a good chunk of flesh, and yeah, maybe Mando was right, you could see a tiny bit of bone peeking out. 

“Ugh, just cut it off, and I’ll get a new one,” you joked, referring to the cybernetics. Mando was not amused. “Okay, so, I can’t run at him. What do we do?” 

“Fuck. He’s walking towards us. With the rifle, he’ll hit us before we can hit him,” the Mandalorian pointed at the figure making its way down the side of the dune. 

“Jetpack?” 

“Sonic rifle versus jetpack? He’ll blast me out of the air.” Right, right. That made sense. 

“He’s pretty loopy from the drugs. Maybe fly low and fast, get me close enough to hit him?” 

The Mandalorian squinted at the horizon. “And what, hope that he misses?” 

“You got a better plan?” Mando shook his head. The bounty had stopped walking. He stood, a stark, blue shape standing out against amber as he propped the heel of the rifle on his hip and stared out into the distance. A light breeze swept across the desert, the Chagrian’s tentacles waving gently in response. It would be quite the stunning sight, really, if the fucker wasn’t planning on shooting you both. 

“Are we doing this or what?” You didn’t mean to sound irritated — wait, scratch that, yes you did. The bacta you’d haphazardly slapped onto the wound was beginning to wear off, and you weren’t above throwing a tantrum. 

“Alright,” Mando checked the settings for the jetpack and handed you a long-range blaster. The sleek, silver weapon matched the Mandalorian’s beskar and was absurdly lightweight for a gun of its kind. It glowed in the suns. Modifications, such as its center of gravity and the sights, were littered throughout. The craftsman ship was impeccable. 

“Nice gun,” you admired. 

“It’s custom made.” 

“How fancy. I think I’ll keep it.” 

“I think not,” Mando deadpanned. “I’m going to have to carry you. It’s going to be uncomfortable.” 

“You make it sound so romantic,” you teased. “At least buy me dinner first.” 

“I think we might be past that.” Mando extended his arm out to you. You wrapped your legs around him as best you could with your festering injury and the Mandalorian’s bulky armor. Mando hoisted you up, taking care to not jostle your injured leg. Arms snaking around his neck and helmet, you secured yourself against his body. “You’re going to have to shoot backwards.” 

“Easy.” 

The Mandalorian gave you a long hard look. “Ready?” 

Any affirmations you might’ve offered up in that moment were drowned out by the roar of the jetpack igniting. The sand below your feet rose up like a geyser, coating you in a thin layer of rust-colored dust as you shot forward towards the target with alarming speed. Soaring above the flat sand would’ve been an absolute blast, if you weren’t also trying to contort your body into a pretzel and still effectively hit the escaped bounty. The Chagrian grew larger and larger in size, until you could make out the distinct shape of horns, tentacles, and bulging, blue arms raising the sonic rifle to the ‘ready’ position. 

Hanging onto the Mandalorian for dear life, you attempted to twist and turn, stretching your arm across your body to point the blaster at the target. The Chagrian was tracking you closely with the rifle. Fuck. This wasn’t going to work.

Time to change tact. 

“HOLD ONTO ME!” You shouted over the jetpack’s engines. You had no clue whether or not the Mandalorian heard you, nor did you take the time to check with Mando before you took three deep breaths, grabbed onto the edge of his armor, tightened your grip around his waist with your one good leg, and leaned back until you were hanging upside down. 

The angle still wasn’t right, so, without sparing even a thought, you took a leap of faith (and a big fucking breath) and allowed the hand gripping Mando’s chest armor to let go. Now, two hands grasped the blaster as you pointed it at the Chagrian. Above you, the Mandalorian visibly panicked as your body practically tumbled out of his tight grasp. Immediately, one of his hands shot down to grip your ass, stopping you from sliding down his body, while the other tightened around your waist to the point where you were having trouble breathing. 

You had to take the shot now. It was now or never. Mando flew lower, successfully avoiding the Chagrian’s first shot from the sonic rifle. You rocketed up again, narrowly dodging a second shot. The Mandalorian swooped down once more before pulling up again and flying at a steady level. Here was your fucking chance. Inhaling deeply, you centered the bounty in your sights. This you could do. Okay, so some of this was new. You were hanging upside down from a Mandalorian on some outer-rim planet located deep in Hutt space, but as the Chagrian drifted into the dead-center of the cross-hairs, familiarity washed over you. Exhaling and forcing both your eyes wide-open, you squeezed the trigger. 

Bullseye.

The Chagrian was dropping down to the sand. But in that instant, much to your surprise, so were you. 

Your back hit the hard surface before you could register that you were plummeting down to the planet’s surface. Everything was white. White sand, white light from the twin suns blaring into every corner of your vision. You tasted blood in your mouth from biting your lip during the fall. Your ears were ringing. Slowly, the world came back to you. White light faded away, replaced by an image of the Chagrian sprawled across the dust, a blue blemish against the otherwise golden dune. Behind you, an eruption of smoke and sand. The Mandalorian’s beskar glimmered in the afternoon light, like a lighthouse beacon in a storm. 

Fuck. Your whole body ached and throbbed. Then again, what did you expect after falling out of the sky? Technically, you didn’t expect to fall out of the sky at all, but maybe now wasn’t the time to debate yourself about semantics. Eventually, you were on your feet. Albeit, just barely. The cybernetics held up well, thank the Maker, but everything organic — everything you cared about — struggled to support your weight as you made your way to the Mandalorian.

Grunting, you hobbled close enough to see him lying in the sand, jetpack dented and sputtering, despite the beskar protection. Fuck. If the jetpack made of beskar was dented — kriff, fuck, shit — Mando wasn’t moving. You picked up the speed, running towards the hunk of metal on the ground. You reached him faster than you expected given your condition and collapsed down beside him. Heat radiated off the beskar, but through the smoke and dust, you couldn’t tell if he was breathing. That fancy helmet probably had all his vitals and readouts, you’d think it’d also sound a fucking alarm when those numbers dropped or changed drastically. Clamoring, you threw your hands onto his armor-clad chest, feeling for the rest and fall of his ribcage. 

There it was. The unsteady, too-light press of beskar into against your hands. He was breathing but very much unconscious. You huffed, crawling around to Mando’s other side and hoping to maneuver him into a better position. This was the second time you’d found him knocked out. This had better not become a habit. 

Sighing, you traced the mudhorn etched into the pauldron on his shoulder as you debated whether or not to try to wake him. The ship was far. You had to get both him and the Chagrian back, and the last thing you wanted was to make two trips or get attacked by Jawas, sand people, or Tusken Raiders. Maker, Tatooine was such a shit-hole. 

It was fortunate for you, then, that the Mandalorian chose that moment to wake. Slowly, he blinked his eyes open. The visor protected him from the relentless sunlight and provided him with disconcerting readings about both his state of being and his armor’s. The first sound out of his mouth was something between a groan and a string of curses. If he was disoriented, he didn’t show it though, bolting upright with a blaster in hand. 

Tiredly, you stared down the muzzle of the barrel. The best you could do was furrow your brow and think at him, ‘please don’t shoot.’ Mando dropped the blaster, letting it tumble into the sand. 

“Fuck,” he rasped. “Got shot.” 

“No shit.” You barked out a sharp laugh that quickly dissipated into a coughing fit that left you doubled over across the Mandalorian’s thighs. 

“You?” He choked out. 

It took you a few moments during which you struggled to breathe, to figure out what exactly he was asking. “Oh. No, didn’t get shot. Fell out of the sky. Don’t worry, the sand caught me,” you chuckled, mirthlessly. 

“Bounty?” 

“Dead. Sorry.” You nodded towards the hint of blue peeking out from behind a mound of rust-colored dirt. The Mandalorian flopped back down to the ground. You were prepared for him to be mad at you, yell at you, at least sneer and call you incompetent. 

Instead, he remained firmly planted on the sand, helmet tilted up towards the impossibly blue skies. And to your surprise, he laughed. 

******

It was dark by the time you dragged the dead bounty back to the ship. Wordlessly, the Mandalorian dropped exhausted into the cockpit and readied the ship for take-off. Once you’ve cleared the atmo, he joined you in the hold, stripping his weapons one by one and placing them back on the shelf. 

“So, King of Mandalore, then,” you smirked, leaning against one of the ships walls. The Mandalorian cocked the helmet. “What, you thought I didn’t catch that?” Ignoring you, he tossed you a med-pack and instructed you to treat your wound. What a gentleman. “You’re really not going to say anything about that?” 

“Later,” he grunted, before disappearing in to the refresher. You sighed. As you gingerly peeled back the temporary bandage covering the angry, red blaster laceration, your hand grazed Mando’s gun still strapped to your side. 

You unholstered it, turning it in your hands. It was then that you realized, he hadn’t taken the blaster back after all. Calling it a successful plan would've been a big fucking stretch, but cradling the blaster in your hand, you smiled. It was, after all, a really, really nice gun. 


End file.
